You asked me to show you how I felt,
so I cracked open my chest and pulled out
my still-beating heart.
There are no words that can compare
to seeing it yourself.
I could tell you that my stomach fills with
hope and happiness and nerves
every time you smile at me.
I could whisper that my legs become
broken stilts when you
tell me I’m beautiful.
You look at me and there’s fireworks
happening somewhere altogether
near and far---perceptible but
I could tell you these things and hope
that the language translates,
but instead I hand you my heart,
trusting you’ll take care of it,
as every beat spells out:
I am yours.
I love you.
Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.